Helpers And Hurters
by interstellardevice
Summary: Wilsoncentric. An alternative take at Wilson's amphetamine dosage. mentioned minor character death.


_"It's not a secret. House, it's, it's ... it's personal._

_"How long has it been personal?"_

_"It's personal."_

_"Yawning's recent, so either you've just started or you've changed prescription."_

_Wilson gestured his hands at House, "This is why I take them."_

_"They're anti-depressants, not anti-annoyance-ants. You'd think this would naturally come up in conversation --_

_"Oh, don't act hurt! You don't care!"_

House didn't reply. Wilson gave him one more exasperated look before turning for the door. House looked down at the ground in uncertainty.

The only thing he could think of saying was, "James..."

House turned to face him. Wilson's hand was on the door handle..

"Look at me," said House.

Wilson only turned his head; His back was still facing House. "What?" he said sharply.

"Why?" asked House. "Why are you.. depressed?"

Wilson turned away again. "I don't know," he said, knowing that wasn't a satisfying answer.

Slightly frustrated, House declared, "You always want to talk about feelings. Now here's your chance and you're clamming up-"

"Because of... " he paused. He hated contributing to House's puzzles of himself. So he simply mumbled, "...everything." His eyes went to the glass of the door- his subconscious was telling him to just leave. Just leave it alone.

More silence passed.

"Including me?"

Wilson twisted the doorknob. "Including you."

He opened the door and left as quickly as possible. He stalked down the hallway into his office as fast as he could to send another doctor to do the "breast thing." Ideally, an available doctor that wasn't currently strung out would do. Before he could even get to his door he stopped dead in his footsteps. To any bystander, it may have looked like a thought had just entered his head. But it was far from it.

Wilson was overwhelmed with nausea as he grabbed his chest. The less he could feel himself breathing and the more he felt his heart beating. Wilson was going into tachycardia.

Five hours later, Wilson woke up finding himself in an immaculate room in a standard hospital robe. After a few seconds of recalling what had happened, he looked at his heart monitor on his left. It read: 106/58.

"Dr. Wilson"

Wilson jumped at the voice coming from his right.

"How are you feeling?" asked Cameron.

"Uh, fine I guess."

"You went into tachycardia. We gave you a shock and then an antiarrythmic. You should be better and out of here tomorrow morning."

Wilson nodded. Cameron gave him a small smile, but before she could leave, Wilson asked, "Where's House?"

Cameron looked caught off-guard. She hesitated for a moment. "Cuddy suspended him."

"What? For how long?"

"Two weeks."

Wilson was stunned at her remark, but then realize he shouldn't be. House deserved it. "Where is he right now?"

"Er, well, he's still in his office, but he's about to leave..."

Wilson opened his mouth planning to say, Could you tell him I want to see him? But then decided against it. He let Cameron leave. Wilson just lay there thinking about what House had said.

'Now here's your chance and you're clamming up.'

He hadn't clammed up before they started involving House. His marriages were troubled, and he wanted to actually share how he felt with someone. The only someone there had ever been was House. He had sacrificed many of the things he had worked hard at to get for the sake of House. The confidently charming James Wilson had diminished to some charmingly pathetic doctor.

Wilson had already fallen asleep when House arrived at his doorway. He couldn't bring himself to step into the room, or even get close to Wilson at all. He felt guilty for hurting Wilson, but didn't want to show it. As he watched Wilson sleep, he wondered if Wilson was furious with him- and if so, how furious? Knowing Wilson, House imagined that Wilson had forgiven him by now. House pulled himself out of his thoughts and walked away.

Three days later, Wilson found himself sitting on his hotel bed tie-less and with two buttons undone. He was watching the 6 o'clock news-- or, more like, stared at the 6 o'clock news. He hadn't taken his anti-depressants in four days, and it was starting to take a toll on him. He didn't know why he had stopped in the first place. He had continued going into work, even though he seemed more like a zombie than a doctor. He could've sworn he cares about his patients. He really did, but now he started to feel rather passive. Plus, House not being in his office, or barging into his own, was weird. He hadn't slept well for the last two days either.

Someone pounded on the door twice.

Wilson nervously opened the door to find House's familiar stony face... or... a small something else in it.

He saw remorse.

Wilson just stood before him, staring. Still being slightly oblivious, he wasn't sure what his body language was sending, but whatever it was, it made House ask,

"Are you mad at me?"

Wilson stepped forward and hugged him. "No," he softly said.

House didn't hug back. Puzzled, he looked at Wilson... or, Wilson's shoulder. He removed himself from Wilson's embrace. "Well, you should be."

Wilson's brows furrowed, "What?"

"After," he began, feeling he would regret what he was admitting. "After all the things I've done to you? You're not even--"

"House. Of course I was pissed. But now I-- I just... need a friend."

"So you're just going to forget everything that has happened the last year or two?" said House, disbelieving. "All of the things I've done..."

Wilson shrugged, "Well, you're not the only one guilty. I ratted you out to Tritter. I- I walked out on your overdose--"

"Yeah, the one time you didn't help me. I gave you a heart-attack, I've been no help to your depression... You should be angry,"

Wilson took a moment to process all this. Should he be angrier? "Like the way you were angry at Stacy."

It was too late when Wilson realized he may have struck the wrong chord. "Oh God," he panicked. "I shouldn't have mentioned--"

House interrupted, "I can't believe this? I don't know why--" He paused. "Are you crying?"

Wilson brought his hand to his moist face. He was so absorbed in conversation that he had teared up. Wilson turned away .

House was slightly bewildered until he realized, "You're over-reacting."

Wilson wiped his face on his sleeve. "What? How am I over-- over-" he asked between sobs.

"When was the last time you took an anti-depressant?"

"I... I don't know," he said, as if it were obvious. He sat on the bed with his head in his hands.

"Come on, think."

Wilson couldn't do it.

"Anti-depressant withdrawal," said House, trying not to sound too matter-of-factly. "...only happens after at least six weeks of taking them." House went over to the bedside table to get Wilson's prescription. He offered the pill in the palm of his hand to Wilson. Wilson hesitated and eyed the pill for a moment before taking it. House turned off the television and seated himself next to Wilson and gave a heavy sigh. Wilson's tears had stopped, but he was still shaking. House slowly put a hand on Wilson's shoulder, but couldn't think of anything to say. As his crying spell came to an end, Wilson finally spoke up.

"Three months ago," Wilson's lifted his head a little. "I got a call from my mother in the middle of the night. She was..." Wilson closed his eyes. "...weeping."

His mind went back to that night- He had been rudely awaken by the phone. Although, he was not completely asleep in the first place. He had just returned from seeing House still popping vicodin that night in prison, and was upset that nothing had changed. His mind went to the phone call. His mother, bawling, and then his father taking over the phone. Saying something... he couldn't completely remember it coherently. He stopped listening after his mother said that his brother was dead.

Wilson didn't realize he had spaced out for more than a minute.

"Wilson, are you okay?"

"They found my brother-- dead."

House was genuinely shocked. "God... Wilson, I'm sorry."

"Yeah... He was stabbed... he bled to death," Wilson gave a sad chuckle and shook his head. "It's just so... It's completely un-ironic... Anti-climatic. I just didn't-- didn't think it'd become a reality, you know?"

Wilson finally met House's blue eyes. House finally saw how obscenely distraught Wilson was, inside and out. His dark eyes were red and his face was flushed.

"Why didn't you tell me?" House asked. "And don't tell me 'it was irrelevant.' "

Wilson's eyes wandered away from House. "I didn't feel like I could confide in you."

House removed his hand from Wilson. Slightly offended, he asked, "What did you think I was going to do? Laugh at you?"

"Well, no. No, of course not. It's just that," Wilson stood up. "we're not the way we used to be. This friendship has been chipping away. The more I try to put it back together or when I try to help you, it just pushes us further apart."

"Well," said House standing up as well. "Maybe you should stop trying to help me."

"Friends help their friends."

House rolled his eyes, "If I need help, I'll ask for it."

"You'd ask for help?" Wilson scoffed. "Right. Because you're needy," he said sarcastically.

"Just the way you like it," House retorted.

"Are you saying I'm your friend because I think you're needy? I don't think you--"

"If you want to help someone, donate two cents a day to an Ethiopian child like a normal person..."

Wilson was baffled. He quietly said, "I can't believe you're saying this..." Until he shouted, "You're self destructive. I can't just sit in the stands and watch my best friend--"

"...Or save some damsel in distress..."

"You're an asshole, House."

"...Just don't help me."

Before Wilson knew it, House had left.


End file.
